


Let steeple bells be swungen

by anactoriatalksback



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes against Christmas ornaments, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hideous Christmas jumpers, M/M, Mistletoe, With all that that implies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: James's Christmas plans fell through, so Francis has invited him along to Christmas at the Rosses. Complete with vile Christmas jumpers. Which is all fine and well, but then there's the mistletoe...
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 32
Kudos: 81





	Let steeple bells be swungen

‘You’re _sure_ it’s all right?’

‘James, for God’s sake.’

‘Don’t ‘For God’s sake’ me, Francis. Christ knows what delicate balance you’ve thrown out of whack by just chucking me at Ann and James’s head. ‘Here, look, this is James, due to deeply boring complications with his family, he’ll be tucking into a Marks and Sparks Dinner for Saddos on Christmas, all right if I bring him here instead?’’

James is the recipient of a look he’s only ever received from Francis with the best of two bottles of whisky in him: a bewildered, loose-lipped frown that looks like the man’s swallowing a prolonged ‘Pssshhhhhh’ sound. ‘What delicate balance d’you think they can manage with three children and a fourth on the way?’

‘It’s _especially_ delicate, then!’

Francis actually _does_ make the ‘Pssshhhh’ sound then, shaking James by the shoulders. ‘Come along now, you great fretting wazzock. They love you, you know they do, and God knows little Tom’s going to be over the moon with Fagin.’

‘Could just leave her with them, then,’ says James, who refuses to be mollified so easily. But a smile’s beginning in the very blue eyes staring up at him. Francis’s head tilts and then – ah, _shit,_ there it comes – the little blink.

‘You’ll be all right,’ says Francis, and damn him, damn him, _damn_ him.

‘Fine,’ says James, ‘but you’re coming shopping for gifts with me.’

‘Ah Christ,’ says Francis, ‘is it too late to drive you into a ditch to celebrate Christmas with that Marks and Sparks Meal for One?’

‘No good deed goes unpunished,’ says James, his spirits lifting at Francis’s scowl.

* * *

James is reasonably pleased with the haul he’s managed for Ann, James (Ross, that is), and the children, as well as Francis’s PA and protégé Tom, and Nervous Ned from work. He already bought and wrapped Francis’s gift, and he’s secured a couple of nice bottles of champagne, so he thinks – he thinks – he won’t disgrace himself.

‘You’ve met them before,’ says Francis, ‘stop fidgeting. It’s not like you’re meeting the parents.’ And as he says this, he coughs and goes a very distracting shade of red.

James’s cheeks are hot, too. Of course he’s not meeting the parents, he tells himself. James Ross is younger than Francis, for one thing. And for another – well, for another, James and Francis are not – they’re not – they’ve never been – like that. _This_ isn’t. Like that.

‘Not _the_ parents,’ he says quickly, ‘but they _are_ parents.’

Francis grins at him and lets the matter drop, much to James’s gratitude.

* * *

The Rosses live in a sprawling Victorian conversion in Blackheath. They managed to scratch together the deposit for the place before property prices really took off, and they’ve grown into the tall house with its high ceilings and kitchen backing into a garden slumbering in the wintry sunlight.

The house is profuse with the smells of cooking, glad shrieks and whirls of elbows and feet and pigtails. The children lose their minds over Neptune and Fagin, who react in diametrically opposite ways to such transports of affection. Neptune is a maelstrom of tail and paws, tearing over the house and miraculously failing to knock over anything fragile, up to and including young Thomas. Fagin allows one stroke down the length of her body per child, one and only one, before retreating to the relative safety of Francis’s lap until Neptune is restored to her.

It has always baffled James and Francis, how easily their respective pets took to the other. An understatement, really: Neptune and Fagin had met once at Tom Blanky’s house, and had fallen instantly, violently and inconveniently in love. When James and Francis could scarcely stand to be in the same room, Neptune whined like a Dickensian orphan when Fagin was taken from him, and Fagin for her part reached out her little paws for him like every silent film tragedienne rolled into one.

At the present moment, Neptune and Fagin have kneaded and stroked and licked each other to their (at least temporary) hearts’ content. Neptune has laved Fagin’s head thoroughly and, for reasons best known to himself, momentarily fit Fagin’s entire head into his mouth. Fagin has endured these attentions with not only unimpaired dignity but marked satisfaction, and has disposed of herself between Neptune’s paws. She is purring and Neptune is trying for a duet, undeterred by the complete unsuitability of his own voice for the purpose.

Francis is looking down at them with twitching lips. ‘Every time,’ he says, ‘like they’ve not seen each other for years.’

‘Time passes differently for them,’ says James. The fairy lights are picking out the silver and red in Francis’s hair.

‘James,’ says Ann Ross, emerging from the kitchen. Six months gone and disgustingly, stereotypically lovely. ‘Where’s your jumper?’

James looks down at himself – black cashmere turtleneck courtesy Burberry – and looks back up. ‘Pardon?’

‘An ugly jumper,’ says Ann, ‘you’ll need an ugly jumper.’

James doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Ann breaks into a joyous peal of laughter, and when Francis claps him on the shoulder, his face is nearly split into two in a gap-toothed grin. ‘James’d burn his wardrobe down before he let an ugly jumper into it, wouldn’t you?’

James gnaws at his bottom lip. ‘I could try the shops - ’

He knew, he knew it would be an imposition, he told Francis. A family is a delicate ecosystem, they have their own language, their own rituals, you can’t just throw a cuckoo into the mix and hope it’ll all be okay, who’d know better than James, it takes a lifetime of study, of proving you belong, that you can add something, you can’t just –

‘Hey,’ says Francis, shaking him gently, ‘where’d you go just then?’

‘Nowhere,’ says James. Francis looks at him with a frown between his eyes and then gets up, levering himself off James’s shoulder for the purpose. James basks in the familiarity of the gesture before awarding himself a quick mental slap.

Francis comes back in a few moments with something in his hands. ‘Here you go,’ he says, putting something in James’s lap.

James lifts a thing that he supposes, legally, could be called a jumper. It’s made of lambswool – thank God for small blessings – and the body’s dyed a deep blood red. On the front is embroidered antlers and the face of a reindeer who has clearly wandered out of the toilet of a Leamington Spa nightclub with about thirty pounds’ worth of cocaine in its nostrils and the immediate intention of fucking at least three prostitutes.

‘Its nose lights up,’ says Francis, teeth bared in sinister delight.

‘I can see that,’ says James faintly. A happy thought strikes him. ‘As much as I appreciate the thought, Francis,’ he says, ‘I couldn’t possibly rob you of - ’

‘I’ve got one,’ says Francis, unveiling a considerably more modest bottle-green number with snowflakes.

‘Well,’ says James, ‘I’m afraid the arms might be - ’

‘Try it,’ says Francis. James glares at him, but slips it on. To his horror, it … fits? It’s loose around the middle, but the arms are actually –

‘Did you,’ he says to Francis, ‘Francis, did you get this for me?’

Francis turns grotesquely wide eyes onto him. ‘Me? How would I?’

James doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know if he wants the thought in his head of Francis rifling through racks of novelty jumpers with him in mind, but he knows that if he allows himself to think of Francis having worn a thing he’s lending to James, even if it’s this monstrosity – well, he’s simply not going to allow himself to think it, that’s all. He is not going to sit here with sherry warming his throat, and the glorious weight of Neptune’s paws on his feet, ensconced in the embrace of a deeply debauched Rudolph, and want things that he ought not to want.

A family is a delicate thing. James is lucky to be allowed so close to so many. This is no time to be greedy.

‘Mistletoe!’ calls Young Ann, pointing at Nervous Ned and Tom Jopson, who indeed have been caught beneath the mistletoe hanging in the archway separating the drawing room from the dining room.

Ned flushes red down to his collarbone and probably lower, obscured by his very own hideous Christmas jumper. Tom pinkens a little, but takes Ned’s chin and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. They part a little slowly, Ned’s lashes fluttering wildly, and James sees the pink tip of his tongue peek out. Tom reaches out and runs the backs of his fingers quickly down Ned’s jaw before disengaging.

Ned doesn’t say anything, but James notices he does loiter beneath the mistletoe afterwards for rather longer than need be after that.

‘Right,’ says James Ross, appearing in a frilly apron and oven mitts, ‘dinner’s up in a couple of ticks. Let’s be having you, you lot.’

James and Francis worm their way out from beneath a drowsing Neptune and make their way to the table. James is gesturing Francis ahead of him in the passageway when there’s a cry of ‘Mistletoe!’

James starts and looks up. And sure enough, there it is. He looks across at Francis, who is staring at him with shocked-wide eyes and parted lips.

This part’s easy, James knows. A quick peck on the cheek, a laugh before and after said peck, something about traditions, some more laughter, go have dinner. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s really not. It is the very smallest of small deals.

James squares his shoulders, pins on a smile that refuses to stay put, and bends to brush his lips against Francis’s cheek.

And then there’s a cheery ‘Finally, eh?’ from Ross and his breath stops.

And the thing is – the thing is that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s simply that he and Francis were taking a while to … complete the dance, as it were. And so, when James finally did what he was supposed to, it was – that was all it was.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s not a big deal.

It’s just that James’s breath stopped at the words. Just a little. Just for a second.

It wouldn’t be obvious, he thinks, to anyone watching. Or indeed to anyone who wasn’t directly in front of him.

Which, as it happens…

Francis’s eyes fly to James’s. James gives him a buss on the cheek, quick and dry, and says ‘There you go.’ He smiles again, and Francis smiles back. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

‘Right,’ says James, clapping his hands together, ‘James, Ann, what can I help with?’

* * *

They put James between Young James and Tom Jopson. He tells stories, he drinks perhaps a little too much of a very nice Malbec, and gestures so widely that he nearly sends said Malbec flying into Tom’s gravy. Francis admits that he likes Brussels sprouts and James Ross throws him a handful, calling ‘You’re welcome, old man.’ James laughs, but determinedly does not look across the table, busying himself with turkey and crackling and terrible puns in his Christmas crackers.

The Rosses are delighted with his gifts, and Ned seems dazzled that James even remembered that he’d taken that Advanced Excel training course. Francis carefully unwraps James’s present – a replica of Humphrey Lloyd’s dip circle – and raises his head to look at James with brimming eyes. James tucks his hair behind his ear and bends to pick up his own gifts. Francis has given him what seems like a book, and turns out to be a gilt-leather-bound collection of James’s own poetry: every mangled rhyme and strained bit of scansion, handsomely embossed and lovingly pressed.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and knows without looking that it’s Francis at his elbow. ‘I thought you should have them,’ says his voice.

James turns, then, and smiles. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

Francis holds up his gift. ‘Thank _you_ ,’ he says. His eyes on James’s are searching. ‘James, can we - ’

‘Fagin!’ says James, ‘Stop molesting that angel.’

Fagin, who has indeed been very thoroughly exploring the theological question of whether Christmas tree angels have a gender, throws James a supercilious look over her shoulder, and in the hubbub of preventing imminent feline sexual assault, other conversations are shelved.

* * *

James misses the last Tube home, and the surge pricing makes his eyes water, so James and Ann insist he stay the night. They drag out an air mattress, lend him one of James’s t-shirts and a pair of pyjamas, and the children give him a solemn kiss each goodnight.

He can’t sleep, though, too full of carbohydrates and the foretaste of a vague after-holiday melancholy. So he sits up, scrolling through Will’s Instagram and smiling at the photographs.

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

James looks up. Francis is standing by the mattress, holding a glass of water. In the moonlight, he looks like a statue of an old Saxon saint.

James holds out his phone. ‘Christmas at Will and Ellie’s.’

Francis takes the phone, fingers brushing James’s. He sits down next to James, the light turning his freckles into a whirling star-cluster. ‘Looks fun.’

‘It does.’

Francis looks at James. ‘I’m sure they miss you.’

James shrugs. ‘It would’ve been awkward, with Dad there.’

‘They’d have told him to piss off if you’d just said the word, you know that.’

‘I know,’ says James, ‘but I didn’t want to make them choose.’ He looks at Francis. ‘It was kind of you, you know. Of you, and Ann, and James. I don’t think I thanked you.’

‘Fuck off, they love you,’ says Francis, ‘don’t thank me, apologise for upstaging me, you jammy toff bastard.’ He’s smiling as he says it.

James smiles back, and they sit for a moment, listening to their breathing synchronise.

Then Francis shifts and turns to face him. ‘James,’ he says.

‘Francis,’ says James, ‘can we not - ’

‘Please,’ says Francis, and James falls silent.

Francis is quiet for a moment and then says ‘James, under the mistletoe – I have to ask. Do you - ’

‘Yes,’ says James. There. Quick. Band-Aid ripped off.

There’s a silence. Francis says ‘How long?’

‘I don’t know,’ says James. ‘A while.’

‘A while?’

James gestures. ‘Does this matter?’

An incredulous eyebrow. ‘Were you going to tell me?’

James shakes his head. The lovely half-lit face before him crumples. ‘Why not?’

‘When, Francis?’ says James. ‘When you were getting sober? When you were giving it another go with Sophia? When we’d only just started talking to each other without a decent chance of a fist in my face?’

Francis looks as though he’s just had a fist in _his_ face. ‘That long?’

James shuts his eyes. ‘Just go,’ he says. ‘Please just go.’

‘I will,’ says Francis, ‘If you want me to. But,’ and then warm wide fingers wrap themselves around his wrist. One of his hands is taken between two rough palms and James’s heart seizes.

‘I used to tell myself,’ says Francis, ‘that it was enough that you even talked to me, let alone that we were friends. Christ knows it’s more than I deserve.’

‘Don’t talk about yourself like that,’ says James, ‘you know I don’t like it.’

Francis hums in acknowledgement. He lifts James’s hand to his lips and kisses the tips of his fingers, a chaste careful salute. James’s heart bounds into life, beating a tattoo in his ears.

‘You didn’t want to tell me,’ says Francis, mumbling the words against James’s palm, ‘and I don’t know why. If it’s – if you’re getting over it – if you _want_ to get over it – I’ll not push you.’ He raises his head. ‘However you want me, James, I’m there.’

James bends forward, leaning his forehead against Francis’s. His cheeks are wet, when did that happen? He takes in a breath and says ‘Idiot.’

He can’t see, but he knows that Francis is smiling. ‘Yeah?’

‘Fool,’ says James. ‘May I kiss you?’

He feels Francis nod, and dips his head down.

A gentle press, a _We’re here_ and a _You have me_ and a _Thank you for letting me_. They both sigh as they part, a great weight shared, a great weight lifted.

‘Can I?’ says Francis. James nods, and Francis reaches up. His lips are soft against James’s, pressing once, then again, then again, a little deeper each time, fingers flexing around his wrist and sliding up his arm. Francis lifts his head to draw in a gasping breath, nose against James’s cheek. James raises his hand and slides it into Francis’s hair – that silver and gold spun silk that has tormented him so – and tugs him back. He licks at Francis’s parted lips and is met with a groan. Their tongues tangle, tentatively at first, unsure of what is permitted, how far their welcome goes, and then Francis’s hand pulls James closer, slides into his hair, drags his head to the angle he wants, and this is different, this is sweat and dim lights different, this is the start of a very good night different. James moans, wriggles closer, gasps as Francis’s free hand wanders down to his hip and squeezes.

Francis bears him down onto the mattress and James melts, wrapping his arms around Francis’s neck and his legs around Francis’s waist. Francis has his forearms braced on either side of James’s head, weight off him, and James arches up.

‘Press down on me,’ he says, ‘harder, Francis.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis, but obliges. James sighs as his weight – already beloved – comes to rest in the cradle of his hips, pressing just … where …

‘Oh, _yes_ ,’ he says. Francis groans quietly in response, and the next few minutes are all touch and grind and harsh breaths puffed against cheeks and into each other’s mouths.

And then Francis is pushing himself up.

‘What - ’

Francis bends and presses a kiss to James’s lips. When he lifts his head, he leans his forehead against James’s and says quietly ‘We can’t.’

James’s stomach drops. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I see.’

He is about to scramble up when Francis swears and pushes him gently down. ‘I meant,’ he says, ‘not here.’

Ah. Right. James and Ann Ross’s house. James, and Ann, and their children, sleeping upstairs.

‘Yeah,’ says Francis, following James’s eyes as they jerk up towards the staircase, ‘don’t want the wains to get an eyeful. Or an earful.’

‘But if we were quiet - ’

Francis smiles, rubbing a thumb down the crease in James’s jaw. ‘You’re a quiet one, are you?’

‘I could be,’ says James. He slides a hand down Francis’s back towards the rise of his arse. ‘With the right incentive.’

Francis moans and crushes his mouth to James’s. ‘I don’t _want_ that,’ he says, panting wetly against James’s collarbone, ‘I want to lay you out, James. See you. Taste you. Hear you.’ He nips at James’s ear and says ‘I want you to _scream_ for me.’

‘I would,’ says James, trying to urge Francis down, ‘I will, Francis, please - ’

‘Tomorrow, love,’ says Francis, ‘Tomorrow, I promise.’

James turns his head to the side, fighting to steady his breath. Francis sighs and kisses his cheekbone and eyes and the bolt of his jaw.

‘Tomorrow?’ says James.

Francis smiles and swipes his thumb across James’s lips. ‘Tomorrow.’

He lifts himself off James, not without a long last stroke down his arms and chest, and sits back on his heels. James sits up on his elbows and looks at him. His hair looks like it’s gone three rounds with a thresher and even in the dark his lips look bitten-red and swollen.

‘I think they might know anyway,’ says James.

‘That we’re together?’ says Francis, and James blushes. Francis grins down at him and kisses him again, a kiss that leaves them both panting and disoriented and very near horizontal again.

‘You’re a menace,’ says Francis, and rolls away nearly off the mattress. James hauls him back and they hold each other for a moment, shaking with laughter.

‘We should sleep,’ says Francis.

James sighs and nods. ‘Will you stay?’ he says.

Francis leans himself on one elbow and brushes the hair off James’s forehead. ‘Sleep,’ he says.

* * *

The next morning young Tom and Ann barrel into the drawing room at thirty knots, finding Uncle Frank and Uncle Jim curled up around each other on the air mattress. Nearby, in an identical configuration, lie Neptune and Fagin. 

James and Ann are extravagantly, perhaps insultingly, unsurprised. The only issue they would like to take up with their guests is the small matter of Young Tom asking why Uncle Frank had said he wanted to make Uncle Jim scream.

Uncle Frank turns beetroot-red and says that he can never show his face in Blackheath again, but is forced to make the return journey to pick up Uncle Jim’s Rudolph Christmas jumper, which got unaccountably left behind. He insists on Uncle Jim wearing it at every Christmas afterwards.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery) if you'd like to come yell with me there.


End file.
